The Killing: Uncommon Denominator

by Karen Dionne

  He pulled up to the emergency room entrance and parked his car in the tow-away zone with the lights flashing. One of the perks of being a cop.

  “Kathleen Goddard?” he asked at the reception desk. “Pregnant? Would have come in about a half hour ago?”

  The white-haired volunteer consulted her papers. “It looks like she’s still in triage. Are you a family member?”

  “Her husband. I’m also a police detective.” His hand was in his pocket ready to pull out his badge if he needed to.

  “Certainly, Officer. Down the hall and turn right.”

  He hurried off in the direction she pointed. He didn’t need her to tell him where the emergency room was. Goddard had escorted both prisoners and suspects to this same hospital emergency room on more than one occasion. The only difference was he’d never been here to visit his wife.

  The hallway opened into a large room arranged with beds around the perimeter that were separated by curtains, with crash carts and medical equipment in the middle. Each bed was clearly visible from anywhere in the room except the bed directly beside it. In an emergency room, privacy took a back seat to medical attention. He scanned the occupants, found Kath, and hurried over.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” he said as he leaned across the IV line feeding into the back of her hand to kiss her forehead. A corny line, but under the circumstances, it was the best he could do.

  She smiled. “You got my message.”

  Her face was splotchy and her eyes were puffy like she’d been crying. He brushed back a strand of damp hair. “Of course. I came as soon as I could. How are you doing? How’s the baby?”

  “The baby is fine. We’re fine. Really. The doctor did this test to see if there was protein in the birth canal. I guess that’s how they can tell if a woman is really in labor or not. Turns out, it was a false alarm. I’m sorry I made you come all the way down here for nothing.”

  “It wasn’t nothing. It could have been something. Better to be safe, than sorry.”

  “It’s just that I really thought I was in labor. My back ached, and I was—well, leaking. I did everything the books say you should if you think you’re going into labor early; I drank two glasses of water and rested on my side for an hour, and then I did it again. But it still felt like I was having contractions. So I came in.”

  “You did the right thing.” Goddard patted her arm. Kath was always more up on this stuff than he was. He’d done the expectant father thing as much as he was able to. Gone with Kath to her prenatal classes on the nights he wasn’t working, and read the books she left for him on his nightstand when he didn’t fall asleep from exhaustion first—even though secretly, he wondered why, after two children, his wife felt she had to take childbirth classes again. It had only been nine years since Sophie was born. How much could things have changed?

  “Are you mad at me?” Kath asked.

  “Only for driving to the hospital by yourself. Next time, call me.”

  “I will.”

  “I mean it, Kath. None of this gallivanting off to hospital emergency rooms without me. Did the doctor say how long you have to stay?”

  “Just for a couple of hours for observation. After that, he wants me to come in twice a week to get checked from now until the baby is born. And I’m supposed to call him immediately if anything changes, no matter what time of day or night. I suppose we’ll have to figure out what we’re going to do with the girls. Do you have any vacation time coming?”

  As if he could simply walk away in the middle of a murder investigation and sit home for the next six weeks to babysit their daughters and hold his wife’s hand. His responsibilities were far more complex than picking up and putting down a paintbrush. Ten years on the job, and Kath still didn’t fully comprehend the demands on the life of a cop.

  “I’ll call my mother,” he said. “She’ll be thrilled to spend some time with the girls. Do you need anything while I’m here? Can I get you something to eat or drink? A bowl of ice chips?” Adding the last to show he’d been paying attention during childbirth classes.

  She laughed. “You can feed me ice chips later. Hopefully in about six weeks.”

  He smiled and leaned over the tubing to give her another kiss. “It’s a date. Meanwhile, I’m going upstairs for a few minutes. I’ll be right back.”

  Goddard waved his fingers as he left the room, then went back to the reception area. He found the bank of elevators and pressed the button for the tenth floor. As long as he was at the hospital, he might as well drop in on Neil Campbell.

  * * *

  Compared to the “do what you have to do and who cares how much noise you make in the process” atmosphere of the emergency room, the silence in the burn unit was unnerving. Goddard actually considered taking off his shoes as he squeaked his way down the corridor. Instead, he walked almost on tiptoe, out of respect for the patients who might or might not be listening. Not all of them were being kept under sedation like Campbell. He knew, because he could hear some of them moaning.

  He went straight to the nurses’ station, avoiding looking into the rooms he passed as much as possible. It wasn’t that he was squeamish; as a homicide detective, he couldn’t afford to be. But even a glance into the patients’ rooms felt intrusive. Each window framed a tableau of misery and suffering. Dark, disturbing, and above all, intensely private. If he was in this place, he wouldn’t want strangers looking in at him.

  The charge nurse was the same one who’d been on duty the night before. With her black hair pulled into a simple ponytail and straight-cut bangs, she looked almost childlike. She couldn’t have weighed more than Goddard’s fourteen-year-old daughter.

  He held out his card and reintroduced himself, though he was reasonably certain she recognized him.

  “I’d like to talk to Neil Campbell, if he’s awake,” Goddard said. “Has there been any change in his condition?” The burn unit hadn’t called, so he doubted the answer would be yes; still, he had to offer her some reason for his spontaneous visit.

  “No change. But honestly, considering how badly he was burned, for him, that’s a good thing. His body needs time to rest, and to heal.”

  “Has he had any visitors?” Thinking of the tweaker he’d seen skulking outside Campbell’s room last night. If the man knew Campbell through his drug activities, he might also know something about the trailer park half of the Marsee brothers’ murders.

  She shook her head. “No, just you and your partner, and the other police officer.”

  “Police officer?” Goddard’s mind raced. As far as he knew, he and Linden were the only officers who’d stopped by. He supposed it was possible that the officer who’d landed the meth fire investigation had also come to the hospital to try to talk to Campbell. Then the pieces fell into place.

  “Guy about this tall?” He held his hand over his head. “Scruffy looking, with a beard and a hoodie?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Did he happen to tell you his name? What department he was with?”

  “No, but hold on. I think I still have his card.”

  She dug through the charts and papers on the counter until she found what she was looking for. She handed the card to Goddard.

  Stephen Holder, King County Sheriff Department, the card read, with an email address and a phone number at the bottom.

  “Can I get a copy of this?” Goddard asked, handing the card back.

  “Keep it,” she said. “I won’t be needing it.”

  Goddard slid the card into his wallet and headed for the elevators. This Officer Holder guy was good, he’d give him that. He’d had no idea last night that the tweaker he’d been talking to outside Campbell’s hospital room was actually a cop. He couldn’t have been very deep undercover, though—otherwise, he never would have presented himself as a police officer to the charge nurse. Deep undercover operations—the ones where officers completely cut themselves off from family and friends for years—were relatively rare. Mainly because they wer
e so expensive. Most undercover cops slept in their own beds at night.

  As he punched the elevator call button and waited for the elevator to arrive, Goddard bounced his fingers against the side of his pants and grinned. At last, he’d caught an honest-to-goodness break in his case. Maybe, just maybe, he was back on track this time for an easy solve. Technically, the trailer park murder was Linden’s half of the investigation, but at this point it was safe to assume that the Marsee brothers’ murders were linked. Goddard was confident that the undercover would be able to shed light on Lance’s murder. Which meant he might have information on Guy Marsee’s murder as well.

  He exited the elevator at the lobby level. He considered going back to the emergency room to check in one last time with Kath. Then he thought about the business card in his wallet. Moving to a quiet corner of the lobby, he took out his cellphone.

  20

  Sarah stood alongside Tiffany in the corridor outside the morgue viewing room window. She could feel the woman trembling. She put a steadying hand on her shoulder. It was hard to say if Tiffany was shaking because she was nervous, or because she was jonesing. Probably both.

  The interview had been a bust. No surprise there. From the moment Sarah learned that Tiffany was a meth head, she’d known what the outcome of the interview was going to be. Add in the fact that Tiffany was clearly reeling from the news that Lance had been murdered, and getting anything useful out of her was highly unlikely. Forty-five tedious minutes of Sarah asking questions she already knew the answers to and Tiffany responding with dissembling and non sequiturs. How many times in one interview could a subject say, “I don’t know"? Answer: forty-seven, according to the transcript.

  “You sure you’re okay with this?” she asked. “Remember, you don’t have to go inside.”

  It wasn’t up to Sarah whether Tiffany identified the Marsee brothers from inside the viewing room or from out in the hallway—that was Tiffany’s decision. That said, Sarah was just as happy to stay on the corridor side of the window. Sarah didn’t have a problem with the odor of antiseptic underlain with decay, but Tiffany was already in rough shape. Not everyone could handle the smell.

  “I’m okay out here.” Tiffany chewed on her fingernail and grimaced. “Let’s just get this over with.”

  Sarah knocked on the glass to indicate Tiffany was ready and nodded to the medical examiner waiting between two gurneys. The M.E. lifted back one of the sheets.

  Tiffany stiffened and turned away.

  “Is it him?” Sarah asked.

  Tiffany nodded. “It’s him.”

  “It’s who? I need you to say his name.”

  “That’s Lance. Lance Marsee. My boyfriend,” she added almost inaudibly. As if not speaking the words aloud could negate the truth.

  “You’re doing great.” Sarah nodded a second time, and the M.E. lifted back the other sheet.

  Tiffany’s eyes widened. She covered her mouth. Despite the fact that the second gunshot victim’s head was turned away from the window, it was obvious that a good chunk of his face was gone.

  “Take a deep breath.” Sarah squeezed Tiffany’s shoulder. “Don’t forget to breathe.”

  Tiffany gagged, swallowed, nodded. “And that’s Guy,” she said after a long pause. “Guy Marsee. Lance’s brother. Can we go now?”

  Sarah knocked once more on the glass, and the M.E. pulled both sheets back in place, then came over to the window and lowered the blinds.

  And that was that. Sarah took the trembling Tiffany by the elbow and led her toward the stairs. The process of identifying a body was one of the few aspects of police work that took place almost exactly as viewers were used to seeing on television. But sometimes bodies were never identified. At present, there were ninety-eight John and Jane Does in Washington State alone. The elderly, the unmarried, the orphans, the childless, the recluses—sometimes there was no one to recognize them, to give them a name. Most police departments posted pictures of their unidentified dead to their websites and to missing persons databases. But too many cases remained cold.

  As for the Marsee brothers, Sarah had been reasonably sure of their identities. But there were other reasons for bringing Tiffany to the morgue aside from making a formal identification. Her reaction could tell Sarah a great deal about her relationship to the trailer park victim. As Sarah led her back to the station lobby, she asked herself if Tiffany’s grief at seeing Lance’s body had been real. Had she cried enough? Too much? Had she been shocked to see both brothers shot in the head, or did she already know that was how they had been killed, and her reaction forced? It was hard to say. Sarah wasn’t unsympathetic. For most people, losing a loved one and coming to the morgue to identify the body was one of the most traumatic things they would ever have to do. But Sarah’s job required that she keep her emotions in check. It wasn’t easy, but she did it for them. So she could find out what had happened to their dead.

  “You can pick up Lance’s things in a few days,” Sarah told Tiffany when they reached the front desk. “Meanwhile, if you think of anything that could help us find out who did this, please give me a call. And don’t leave the city. We might need to talk to you again.” She handed Tiffany her card.

  Tiffany shoved the card into her jeans pocket and sniffed as she shrugged on her oversized down coat. The desk sergeant pushed a box of Kleenex across the counter. Tiffany blew her nose, and headed for the front door. Sarah let her go. She’d gotten all she could out of Tiffany. For now.

  * * *

  Sarah put down her office phone and crossed the final entry off her list. No pawnshop in the Rainier Valley area had copped to having Lance Marsee’s thousand-dollar tablet. The Surface Pro had not surfaced.

  “Going home?” Lieutenant Oakes stood in the doorway later that afternoon with his trench coat draped over his arm. He tapped his watch. As if Sarah could forget.

  “Soon.” She smiled to show that she was okay.

  He nodded and moved off.

  She sat back. The late afternoon sun slanted through the windows across the hall from Sarah’s office, picking out the dust motes swirling in the air and highlighting the fact that her work space was long overdue a serious cleaning. According to the weather report, a cold front was moving in, bringing with it the probability of high winds and freezing rain and snow. A snow event always put an extra burden on the department. It would be all hands on deck when it hit. But for now, Sarah was content to bask in the warmth of a few minutes of rare winter sunshine, leaning back in her chair with her boots propped on her desk.

  The rest of the day was hers to do with as she wished. Jack had gone home from school with his best friend, Nick. Sarah was supposed to pick him up after supper on her way home from work. He and Nick were probably playing computer games, though Sarah hoped that Emily would shoo the boys outside and make them shoot a few hoops, soak up some sunshine. A play date, she would have called it in the past, though she wouldn’t dare let Jack hear her call it that now.

  Her office grew noticeably cooler as a cloud passed over the sun. She swung her legs off the desk and pulled Tiffany’s interview transcript toward her. Paged through the transcript again until she found the only useful take away, approximately thirty-eight minutes in:

  Linden: Did you know Lance’s brother, Guy?

  Crane: Yeah. They spent a lot of time at the trailer before Lance—you know.

  Linden: What did they do when they were together?

  Crane: I don’t know. Mostly, they talked.

  Linden: What did they talk about?

  Crane: I don’t know. Stuff.

  Linden: Did they talk about sports? Music?

  Crane: No, work stuff. They’re both really smart. Lance was into space. He knew everything. He had this photographic memory. We used to play this game. He’d give me one of his books, and I’d open it and pick a sentence and read it to him out loud. Then he’d tell me the sentence that came before and after. He could really do that. He was amazing.

  Linden: And his
brother? Did Guy have a photographic memory too?

  Crane: I don’t know. He might have. Guy was more into numbers, though. Like that guy on the TV show?

  Linden: So Lance was interested in space, and Guy was interested in numbers. Is that what they talked about?

  Crane: I guess. They also talked about their secret project.

  Linden: Their secret project?

  Crane: They didn’t call it that. That’s what I called it. I knew it was a secret, though, because whenever they were talking about it and I came in the room, they’d get quiet. Sometimes I’d walk out and come back in again just to see them do it. It happened every time. It was funny. They were like little kids.

  Linden: You must have overheard snatches of their conversation. Do you have any idea what the project was about?

  Crane: I don’t know. I only know that it was a secret. Can I smoke in here?

  A secret project. Lance and Guy working on something they kept hidden from Tiffany was intriguing. Sarah had tried to circle around the subject later in the interview and dig deeper, but either Tiffany didn’t have more to offer, or she wasn’t telling.

  She did confirm a few facts over the course of the interview: Guy had what sounded like an obsessive-compulsive disorder. Tiffany had met Lance at the Black Bear Casino. When the casino found out about their relationship, they fired her for violating their “no fraternization” policy. Lance and his fancy tablet were inseparable. The tablet that was still missing.